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Eirlys Explores
Please note: The GM is not attending to this thread at all, due to time constraints until after the main thread has been sorted up to the pulse. This thread will be retroactively checked, NPC roles written, locations and times corrected, and all the other things that may or may not need doing to it done when to do so does not hold up the game for everyone else. As a result, the fact that I am not doing anything with this thread in no way implies the contents are approved. Thanks, --James 18:15, 9 August 2006 (UTC) Once the horse had been feed and watered, brushed, cleaned and secured beside the cottage, Sandor came back around to the front bearing a canvas cloth-wrapped around a hung of cheese and bread. He approached the three magi, as they sat and discussed one thing or the other in Latin. As he approached, he spied Aloysius curled up on the ground, his eye fixed on the mages. He stepped just close enough to get the polecat's attention, while trying not to disturb the mages' discussion. Sandor raised the canvas bag and his eyebrow, querying of Aloysius where their mistress had gone. The little polecat turned his head around, spying the hulking Welshman, and sauntered over to him. "The mistress is upset. They want her to forego the Beltane sabbat to stay and philanthropize about their new covenant," he translated. "I was just thinking to follow her and make sure she's okay." Waving one paw, he took off at a scamper towards the nearby spring. The satyr was sitting back on her haunches, immersed in thought as she stared intensely into the bubbling water. At the sound of grass being crushed under a boot, she turned. "Oh, it's you two," she sighed with relief. As Sandor carefully laid out the meal and began to dine, he noted as bits of bread and cheese would float up and disappear into thin air. Eased by the knowledge that his friend's appetite had returned, he relaxed. Finally, the satyr broke from her reticence. "I've an idea," she declared. Aloysius groaned. "Every great catastrophe in Crun Clach's recent history has begun with you saying those words," he rued. "Oh hush," she scowled at the polecat, then turned to her protector. " Sandor, I'll be leaving shortly. Please don't fret, as I'll be back sometime around dusk." Sandor's look soured immediately, and he gave his best peircing stare in the general direction of where he felt her face to be. Not as effective when he couldn't see her eyes, but he hoped it would be effective enough. Sandor waved his hand in the air, a horizontal cutting motion, and indicated that he wanted to go with her. She sighed. "You talk too much," she said critically. "Very well, if you insist. I'll rummage through our belongings to find what we'll need, if you'll see to your horse and meet me back here." Sandor nodded, satisfied. A small smile played aross his lips as he rose and headed off to ready the horse. Eirlys then turned to her polecat companion. "Aloysius, I'd prefer you came with us so as not to be left alone with the... the Christians. You don't have to, though. But would you do me the favour of informing Maga Mnemosyne that we will be gone until dinnertime? You can let her know that I'll be seeking communities of the old faith, in the hopes that I might not need travel so far for an appropriate venue to observe the sacred sabbat." Aloysius scoffed. "Not looking like that, you're not," he criticised. "Looking like what? I don't look like anything," Eirlys retorted. "Exactly!" exclaimed Aloysius. "And then some. First off, I'll not have you frightening off the countryfolk by addressing them as some disembodied voice. Second, you have to remember that we are not at Crun Clach, or in Arcadia. While the gods they worship might be the same, they are not like to be as accustomed to seeing the fae as those mundanes you've congregated with before." Eirlys sighed. "Well, the second I might be able to do something about, with your guidance," she said thoughtfully. "The first... well, I don't know how to restore my image, as my Imaginem is poor and my Rego is nonexistent." "How exquisitely dull you are!" Aly shouted. "No wonder Drystan can't stand teaching you. So unimaginative, even by fae standards," he chuckled. "Why not just dispel the magic, rather than counter it? Do what you're good at and just plow through your own magic." Visible only to Aloysius' faerie eyes, a sheepish look crossed Eirlys' face as the realization dawned on her. "Oh," she said simply. "Of course!" She laughed then. "I should remain unseen while flying above, for I have seen no birds like the one I transform into, and should not like to attract the attentions of any hunters. But... thank you, Aly." She hugged him tightly. The polecat grinned a bit as he indulged her with the embrace, but after a few moments he wriggled free and bounded down to the ground. "I'll be letting that Guernicus of grace and gorgeousity, know of our intentions. Don't dally too much, as we should get moving quickly." With that, he scampered off back toward the cottage. Eirlys rummaged through the bulky pack she and Sandor had packed of their belongings. With a grunt and a heave, she'd managed to remove two oversized, heavy woolen robes, both pristine white in colour. The one that fit her well, she spread out and folded carefully. The second one, the one which was so overlarge that its voluminous folds were not suitable for her to wear herself, she shook out and examined. She muttered in that strange, unintelligible tongue, and the robe's colour became a deep blue. As Sandor returned with the saddled horse, Eirlys handed the robe to him. "Wear this over your armour. Your hammer you can wear right here, between these two folds. The only thing you should wear over the robe is your rebec." She helped him into the wool garment, then put the white one on herself. "I will be travelling in owl form, but we will not be travelling by road-- I shall guide you again as this morning." Eirlys filled their waterskins at the spring while waiting for Aloysius' return. Shortly thereafter, his small brown form could be seen scampering over to them. He leapt up and climbed the horse via Sandor's leather-clad leg, nestling himself across the big Welshman's shoulders. "The lithe and lovely Guernicus has been made aware of our endeavour, and wishes us well. I am ready to go when you are." "Let us be off, then. We head west," Eirlys declared, looking up at the sky. She spoke loudly in the odd language of magic, and her form blurred into that of the now-familiar snowy owl. Unfortunately, her casting was not so competent as usual, and she grumbled to herself as she waited to recover her wind. As an owl, however, the grumbling sounded a bit like a low growl, and Aloysius tensed up and circled around Sandor's frame. Noticing his discomfort, Eirlys just swore to herself internally. Once she'd finally caught her breath again, she hooted to announce she was taking flight, and then took to the skies. It took her a moment to orient herself-- the direction Sandor rode was not quite the direction she'd intended, but she trusted him to have a more accurate idea of where west lay than she did. She took to making wide, lazy circles overhead, scanning the countryside for any signs of civilizations outside the church's influence. She would circle about quite far in any direction before doubling back to where Sandor and Aloysius rode below, to guide them where she wished. The invisible faerie-owl skirted well around any towns where a church was prominent, looking instead for any rural communities which might sprawl out near any standing stones. The first few rural settlements she noticed, had crosses and other signs of the church's influence scattered about. She had almost given up when she finally saw something promising, just after they'd crossed the Welsh border. (OOC: This is a different Welsh settlement on a different Anglo-Welsh river than the one Eirlys is at, but the place looks something like this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Tintern_village_and_River_Wye_2004-07-25.jpg) What she noticed first was a lovely symmetrical ring of eight stones. Even from a great distance, Eirlys could see how weathered the old stones were. While not terribly large, the stone circle was still remarkable, due to the perfect radial symmetry. At the center of the ring was a stone altar, and in the clearing beside it, a group of youngsters tossed branches onto a huge pile of wood that could only be in preparation for a Beltane fire. The clearing was flanked by fields of barley and wheat, and was bordered by a river. A bridge of large, flat stones spanned the slow-moving water, and a beaten dirt path led from the bridge to a small settlement. The village itself consisted of perhaps three dozen huts nestled at the base of rolling hills. Ancient oak trees blanketed the hills like a plush, verdant blanket, sheltering the village from wind and weather. There were charms hung upon the doors, and some of the window sills sported some pastries and saucers of clotted cream. Eirlys smiled, then circled back to the horse and its riders. The unseen owl guided her companions to a spot within the woods above the settlement, then resumed her human form. "Perdo Vim, you say," she muttered, before chanting in that strange language of magic. As the air chilled to the sound of distant hoofbeats, the satyr found her image restored. "Well what do you know," she mused. The polecat just snickered, an "I-told-you-so" expression on his furry face. The maga looked down at her now-visible form. There was something about the robe that wasn't right, but she couldn't quite tell what. "Something wrong, miss?" the polecat inquired. She shook her head. "I can't tell what it is I dislike about this robe." Sandor gestured as to indicate a long beard, and Eirlys shuddered. "Oh, you're right. I look like that old Mercurialis, don't I?" He shook his head, indicating a longer beard. "Drystan?" She scowled. "You think I look like Drystan?!" A look of pure disgust crossed her face. "Really, I'm much prettier than that crusty old windbag. I make these robes look good." She smirked as she straightened out her white robes and Sandor's blue ones, then turned to Aloysius. "Well? Do we look like a proper mundy priestess and bard?" Aloysius paced, inspecting the garb. "Not quite," he said softly. "While the folds of that robe are quite forgiving, there are some things clothing just can't hide." He sighed. "I think you should do something about your legs." "What's wrong with my legs? You can't even see my fur," Eirlys scowled. "There's nothing wrong with them, love, other than you being clumsy as a foal on a frozen lake," he replied kindly. "But your knees are conspicuous to the trained eye. Look at this village. It's practically Tír na nÓg down there. The folks who live within are like to stink of summer, and may be frightened to see an ambassador of winter. Remember, at Beltane, you're one of the few who are sad to see Cailleach go. The maiden and mother are well-loved by the common folk; they have only fear and respect for the one who you revere." The satyr nodded in understanding. "Ah, my friend, you're as wise as you are disagreeable," she smiled fondly. "I suppose I could try to, hrrrmpfh, make myself look like a-- a human." She grunted, lifting armful after armful of heavy wool cloth up to her waist, finally revealing her furry goat-legs beneath. "Sandor-- can you hold onto this for me? I want to see what I'm doing," she called out. As her friend helped with her robes, Eirlys waved her arms and called out in that odd language again. This time, however, she cast quite well-- better, in fact, than she had anticipated. Her legs slimmed and reshaped themselves, the thick fur disappearing even as her flesh and bones re-formed themselves into human legs. Eirlys cried out in pain, gasping for breath. "I'm fine. I'm fine!" she insisted, though the tears springing into her violet eyes said otherwise. Aloysius looked at her with concern. "I'll be all right. Really," she said. As if to prove her point, Eirlys gathered her robes and took a step-- and was surprised to find that she moved with more grace than she ever did in her own form. Whenever she walked with her true legs, the satyr seemed somehow... ungainly, unnatural. In this adopted form, however, she could move quite easily, and though it caused her great pain to do so, she would not speak of it. "There. See? Now let us go. And do me a favour, Aly... this time, don't speak! I'd wager my middle name, your grating speeches frighten folks more than my natural form does." Gathering the polecat in one arm, and claiming her holly staff with the other, Eirlys made towards the settlement. The village was alive with people about their various duties. Many looked up curiously as the robe-clad pair made their way toward the stone bridge and the clearing beyond it. Before they reached the river, however, a dark-haired girl ran up and tugged at Eirlys' hem. "Are you a real priestess?" she asked, looking up at the maga. Eirlys looked down at the girl, whose dark eyes accentuated the already-somber face. "Yes, I am," she replied. "Are you a real girl?" The child's face lit with a shy smile. "Papa used to say he thought he had a son, dressed in girl-flesh, on account of all the trees I climbed and the boys I punched. But I'm a real girl, I told him so too." Delighted laughter burst from Eirlys' throat. "Your papa must be very proud to have such a bold and bright daughter!" The girl's smile faded. "I don't have a papa anymore." Eirlys just smiled ever more brightly. "You can share mine then. He'd love you." The girl's shy smile returned. "I'm Lleulu verch Cnychwr," she introduced herself. "I've always wanted to meet a real priestess." "I'm Eirlys verch Alithas," the maga replied. "I've always wanted to meet a real girl." "You're funny!" Lleulu giggled. "You'll want to see the druid. I can take you to him. He's nice." Without waiting for Eirlys' reply, she took her hand and began leading her across the river. They made their way across the clearing, and to the edge of the valley. One great oak tree stood there, taller and stronger than the others. At the base of this tree, a middle-aged man with an owl on his shoulder, sat with long white robes fanned out about him. His deep, clear voice was telling the tale of the doomed marriage between Branwen verch Llyr and the cruel Irish king, Matholwch. The newcomers sat quietly, listening to the tale. It was one Eirlys knew well, yet still loved to hear. When the tale closed with Branwen's watery death, there were tears glistening in many eyes. After murmurs of thanks and praise, the small audience scattered, leaving Eirlys, Sandor, and Lleulu with the druid. "Good afternoon, Lleulu." His kindly eyes scanned them as he smiled. "It's not often we have visitors here. I am Hywel ap Pryderi. How can this one of the fatherhood be of assistance to a fey-touched priestess and a stalwart bard?" Eirlys bowed with a smile. "Eirlys verch Alithas, a traveller from Kintyre, though originally of Powys." "Verch Alithas, you say?" Hywel stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That's not a name I recognize as either Welsh, or Scottish." Eirlys nodded. "Truth be told, I am more than just "touched" by fey. My father, Alithas, is a lord in service to Cernunnos, within the courts of Arcadia." An eyebrow arched. "For true? I would not have guessed, as only the colour of your eyes indicated to me a link with the fair folk." The maga squirmed uncomfortably. "Ah, yes, about that..." her voice trailed off while she scratched her legs beneath her robes. "I've... umm... altered my appearance so as not to frighten anyone. In reality, I resemble Cernunnos, more than Arianrhod... or Anu, as I have known her." "Caerwiden?" The druid laughed. "I should like to see your magnificent horns, my lady!" She flushed. "Except for the horns," she said, shame evident on her face. "Ah, but we've been most rude," Hywel changed the topic quickly, having noticed Eirlys' discomfort, and turned to Sandor. "By what name might I know you, good bard?" Eirlys spoke again. "This is my friend and companion, who we call Sandor. His real name has been lost to us, as unfortunately, he cannot speak." "Truly a great tragedy, particularly if you are as skilled with that rebec as the callouses on your fingers would indicate. It is a lonely fiddle which is not accompanied by voice and feet." The kindly man smiled. "I've come in search of a place where I might celebrate the sabbat of Beltane with others who share my faith," Eirlys explained. "My time in Scotland has left me unprepared for the mentality of the church which predominates life on the other side of the border," she said, a trace of sadness in her voice. "All who care to worship are welcome here. I am certain we can find lodgings for the two of you, for any family here would be honored to share accomodations with a priestess and a bard. As I said, it's not often we have visitors, let alone others of the order." The fae girl waved her hand. "We will not be staying just yet. There are other matters to attend for the Order, but we will return here in time for Beltane." He nodded. "Will you be taking Lleulu with you?" "What?" It was only then that Eirlys noticed the girl's hand was still in her own. "Why would I do something like that?" "I thought she might have told you. She has long wished to enter the priesthood of Arianrhod. Her parents had been making travel preparations to bear her to Avalon, but the whole family took to fever last winter. I did what I could to ease their pain, but the illness was beyond my own skill. It was only the girl who survived the fever." He smiled at the dark-haired girl. "I teach her what I can, of course, but she cannot learn the secrets of the Maiden from an old codger like myself." He smiled brightly. "Oh, I... uhh..." Eirlys stammered. She didn't know what to do with a girl-child, but she knew the importance of training new priests to preserve the knowledge of their faith. "What do you want, Lleulu?" The girl's face made a shy, slight smile. "I want to go with you and become a priestess." Not quite the answer she'd been hoping for, Eirlys sighed. "You should know that I don't live among others of our order. I travel quite a bit, and I study in the magics of the fey." "The fair folk? Really?" The child's dark eyes burned with excitement. "Are there many where you live?" The satyr grinned wryly. "I am rather... between homes, at the moment," she said after a pause. "In the place where I have lived these past dozen-and-more years, there are only two pure humans. The rest are either fey themselves, of strong fae heritage, or simply fey-touched. In the place where I am like to live hereafter... not so much." At the disappointment on the already-severe face, Eirlys softened. "I could bear you to the place where I was trained myself, deep within Arcadia. Such would be a life among the fey, which would change you irrevocably from the person you are now in ways we can only imagine. While it may sound fantastical, I find that most humans who visit Arcadia like to visit, but do not wish to make that their way of life for good. And if I took you there, I would not be about to look after you, or to take you elsewhere if you decided you were not happy." Lleulu's grave expression showed that she was truly weighing Eirlys' words-- something the maga found delightful in a child of only six or seven years. "And what if I wanted to go with you, wherever it is you will go?" Something resembling panic welled up within the satyr's breast, but she quelled it. "I... I could not dedicate any significant amount of my time to teaching you, little one," she said sadly. "My priesthood has been spent primarily as a personal servant to the Lady who favours me. Be it known that I am no priest of the Maiden or Mother, but a disciple of the Crone. My arts are those of Winter, and my life is one not of birthing and nurturing, but of seeking and preserving knowledge." The druid seemed surprised for a moment, blinking a few times until he resumed his nonplussed smile. "Out of the ordinary for one so young to serve the Crone already. It must be a truly old soul which animates your limbs, my lady Snowdrop." She laughed. "In some ways, I would agree with you, but in other ways, I'm not so certain..." she replied. "Such is the nature of the learning process," he quipped sagely. Lleulu piped up. "I'm not afraid of Ceridwen," she asserted gravely. "It would be unwise not to fear the Cailleach," advised the winter priestess. "She is a severe mistress, though when proper respects are made, She is not stingy with knowledge." No sign of uncertainty crossed the child's face. "I'm not afraid of Her. Some fear the winters, and I am not one of them. Winter claimed both my Mama and Papa, but She did not claim me. 'There can be no summer without winter, no light without darkness, no life without death.' There would be no balance without Ceridwen's harsh rule of winter. We need her every bit as much as we need Arianrhod and Caerwiden and all the others... and I can't be afraid." A rush of affection and respect for the little girl surged up within Eirlys. "You have truly laid a great foundation within this child," she said, turning to Hywel. The sage shook his head softly. "I but tell the tales of our history and philosophy. The faith is her own." A few moments passed while the priestess considered. Finally, she knelt before the girl and spoke. "If you chose to come with me, and if-- IF I allowed it-- it would be no easy life for you. I would not be able to devote great amounts of time to tutoring you. You would have to work, most likely maintenance of my laboratory, caring for my plants and menagerie, and the like... and you would learn only what you could pick up in service, and when I teach during the sabbats." Lleulu nodded gravely. "I will consider these options," she said carefully, "And give you an answer by Beltane." Eirlys smiled. "I am glad to hear it." She turned back to Hywel. "I must be on my way soon. Would it be acceptable were I to return here at the new moon, five days hence?" The white-robed man smiled graciously. "We would be honored to have a priestess share the wisdom of the Ancient Lady with us at Beltane," he agreed. "I look forward to celebrating the fire festival with you and yours. But... before you go..." he turned to Sandor, a shy smile on his face. "Would you be willing to fiddle for an old man?" The journey back was short, and the three of them took time to hunt a covey of coneys along the way. Sandor slung the rabbits upon a stake he slung over his shoulder. The three of them all looked forward to the hot meal they would prepare at their return to the cottage on the hill.